


The Lightning In Me (that strikes relentless)

by TheHatterTheory



Series: Hagalaz [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Angst, Canonical Character Death, Explosives, M/M, Post-Season 3A, Pre-Slash, Utter and complete disregard for 3B, black hole inducing wangst, medication abuse, so much wangst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-02
Updated: 2013-09-02
Packaged: 2017-12-25 11:07:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/952348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheHatterTheory/pseuds/TheHatterTheory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles hated how he'd put his faith in something again, how he'd let himself think for even a moment that someone could endure, might not be fragile like his mother, like his father, like him. He hated that he'd been dumb enough to hope for something resembling stability.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Beeblebrox](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beeblebrox/gifts).



> Story consists of 2 coda chapters and 3 set after the events of 3A, between the death of Jennifer and Derek leaving.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a coda to 3x05 & 3x06  
> Disclaimer: I don't own the rights to teen wolf.

Things got broken. It was natural. Everything had to break, had to crumble eventually. Everything ( _everyone_ ) had to die sometime. That's what he told himself as he took the twelve pound sledgehammer to the wall. It shattered into black ash and it rasped instead of thudding or cracking as it fell apart, looking like nothing more than used charcoal from a barbecue. And shit, that was an image he didn't need, not ever, especially in the house he was in.

“Fucker!” He shouted, bringing the hammer up and swinging it like it was a baseball bat. It made contact with a stud that had made it out of the fire relatively unscathed. It snapped, maybe weak from years of water damage or termites, but it took a decent portion of the wall with it. It was enough to see the room on the other side. Sweat was already rolling down his back and his hoodie was stifling, but he didn't stop, didn't pause. If anything, the partial view of the other room sent him into a frenzy. He picked up the hammer and swung, over and over.

“Stupid-” _Crack_ “Fucking-” _Rasp_ “Dead” _Thunk_ “Sonofabitch.” _Thud_.

The two rooms were soon one big room.

It wasn't enough. Stiles wasn't sure what would be, but the destruction was comforting.

It wasn't like anyone would care, was left to care. Cora wouldn't come anywhere near the house and Peter didn't count because Stiles counted him as dead, no matter the evidence to the contrary.

And Derek was dead. The only thing Stiles could do was use the house as a replacement for all the anger he wanted to take out on the alpha for betraying his trust so completely. Briefly, before his mind gravitated back to 'dead' to 'derek' and 'alphas' and 'darach' and 'fuck', he thought that the house was Derek, that it was the husk of a should that had been burned and crippled years before. He thought maybe less of Derek made it out than even Peter.

He worked on another wall, one mostly intact because even though the wood was weak, it made a more satisfactory sound as it gave beneath the weight of the hammer. It was cracking instead of rasping like sandpaper over stone. Stiles needed the noise because Scott was quiet like Isaac was quiet and Boyd had been the one to talk for once, saying 'Derek's dead' before crawling inside of his own head. And Stiles' mind was too full to actually process anything. Every synapse was a snap of light before something else signaled, trying to demand his attention and he couldn't take it anymore, couldn't handle the overload as his brain tried to fry itself.

The noise narrowed his focus down to 'destruction' to 'derek' to 'dead'. And for a moment, that was too much but just the right amount. There was no Darach or Lydia or Peter or Alphas, only the death of the one person that had survived everything, that was supposed to fucking be there, all sarcasm and bitterness and potential decency.

Stiles hated how he put his faith in something again, how he let himself think for even a moment that someone could endure, might not be fragile like his mother, like his father, like him. He hated that he was dumb enough to hope for something resembling reliability, even if it was nothing more than the assurance of sneering and orders and impatience. It was a stability he needed, needs, because everything was crumbling beneath his feet.

Wall after wall gave, broke and littered the floor. He was hoping he could get the supporting studs and cave what was left of the roof in, but they only creaked angrily. Stiles figured that was alright, he had all night to figure it out (and the rest of his probably short life).

His chest was tight like it was being crushed from all sides, the first stages of a panic attack he wouldn't let happen because he was too busy being so fucking angry. He couldn't breathe and even when he tried he sucked in ash and plaster and mold but he was beyond caring. The top floor of the Hale House was slowly becoming one giant room and the noise was enough to drown out the noise of him struggling to breathe and scream at the same time.

By the time all the walls were down, the sun was rising and he was starting on the floor, sending chunk of it down to the first story. The alarm on his phone went off. His hands wouldn't quite let go of the hammer, fingers cramped in place and numb to all feeling. Stiles was pretty sure that's how he felt as a whole. Cramped into place, rigid. Numb. Something could come along and tap the fault line and even if everything broke into a billion little pieces, he'd still hang on because he couldn't fucking let go of things, even when he wanted to.

He walked down the stairs past the open door, out into the air. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to a world not clouded with ash and plaster dust. It clung to him though, the scent of a burned house, burned family and death mixing with his sweat, drying like clay on top of his skin.

Somehow he forced himself to his jeep, forced his hands to open and get in, to throw the sledgehammer in the back. By some minor miracle he got himself home, though he couldn't remember a fucking thing about the drive. Luck ( _hah_!) was on his side, and his father was asleep on the couch. Through the sheer power of belief and a sense of desperation he dragged himself up the stairs to his bathroom and stripped.

But the shower didn't help. The sweat, dust and ash washed away, but the scent remained, as though it had embedded itself into his skin. He thought about the house, the pieces of it lingering, the burnt out husk of everything Derek ever was clinging to him. He wondered if maybe, by the time he destroyed every wall, pulled down all the bricks until it was just the foundation, he might be lucky enough for the scent to fade. Maybe he'd have Lydia make some sort of bomb to get the basement clear. She'd been on about binary powders recently.

Later, when he was taking care of Scott, he was proud that he didn't let it get to him, that he was functioning and planning like he should be. (Five minutes after that he was screaming in Finstock's face because Scott wouldn't _stop saying it_.)

That night he almost died and he hated himself for kind of wanting an end to all of the uncertainty. (The next morning he heard 'Derek might be alive' and his world expanded and collapsed at the same time.)

Once he was alone (and that was quick, because he was human and always alone, even when he didn't want to be) he went back to the Hale house and stared at it. The scent rising from his skin blended perfectly with the smell surrounding the house. He didn't worry about it fading anymore. Everything broke eventually, everything crumbled. The mourning process was just going to take a little longer.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He'd taken all of the tools he had and used them to mangle himself and everyone around him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coda to 3x07  
> Edited version of the original found on my tumblr [here](http://thehattertheory.tumblr.com/)

Derek looked at the mess of the upstairs. It wasn't like it hadn't been a mess before. With part of the roof missing and the years of squatters and animals using it for their own purposes (teenagers avoided it, because if any place in Beacon Hills was haunted, it was the Hale House) it was pretty rundown. But the destruction, the new, obvious signs of active wrecking, it felt like someone had physically attacked him. (He didn't blame them.)

The scent of tears and Stiles and sweat were embedded into the floors, into the chunks of wall and into the first story of the house. It was just old enough that he knew it had been a few days, too stale to be brand new, to be a response to-

He looked down at his hands, couldn't look away from the thin line of rust red between his nails and cuticles. It was the damning evidence of the night before. Cora had washed his hands earlier, gentle with him in a way he had thought burned out of her. It stung because she'd been as gentle as Laura had been, gentle like Laura holding his hands between her own, the hands responsible for the massacre of their family, gentle even though he had been (would always be) the root of the problem.

Stiles' frustration and hatred were a palpable thing, locked tight in the scents that had bled into (or were bleeding out of) the pores of the house, condemning him. They inspired him, for a moment, to call the sheriff's office, to admit to the crime he'd committed. He thought maybe-

But no, because he didn't even know where they'd buried the body. Or if they burned it. Or-god. He didn't want to think about it. He didn't want to think about Issac and Stiles whispering as they covered the body in a blanket. He hadn't caught what they'd been saying, numbed by the scent of blood on his hands. He didn't know where his dead beta was (except for that tiny slip of him inside his own mind, a solid presence when alive now locked inside of his blood because he had-)

His world was falling apart around him, just like the corpse of the house he was sitting in. It was all that was left to remind the supernatural world of the once respected Hale pack. A broken shell of a memory that grew more obsolete with every passing day.

He hated himself suddenly (or perhaps simply more than he had before) because he'd had so many hopes, so many plans. He'd wanted to build a pack, to rebuild the house, restore the name his mother had been so proud of, wanted to grow into something, someone, that was capable, worthy of leading others.

Except he didn't know how to lead, how to be an alpha any more than he knew how to replace a roof or hang a window. He'd taken all of the tools he had and used them to mangle himself and everyone around him.

All he could do was destroy, disrespect the memory of his mother and father, of his sister, who had struggled to be the right kind of alpha for their broken pack. He'd fucked everything up because he didn't know what to do, didn't know how to fix it. All he _could_ do was taint everything he touched.

The chunk of floor in his hands was a surprised. He wasn't quite sure when he started pulling it up, but the edges bit into his hands and the scent of rot filled the air. It was damp and moldy, and it stung his nostrils and burned his lungs. The scent of Stiles' hatred rolled along and under it, almost masked by the stench of decay. It was perfect.

The floor started coming up, along with a few of of the supporting beams. He pulled at them and broke them, ripped them away from the wall and let them drop to the floor below.

Dust clung to the blood smeared on his hands and arms, blood left from wounds that healed over and over. For a moment he hated that he couldn't have marks, couldn't have scars to remind him of everything, that it all just healed over, like it was determined to lock the infection inside. And he kept ripping up the floor, pulled up the stairs, ripped apart the banister, because at least that would _last_.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You hate the sound of people breathing, so it'd be two blessings in one, really," Stiles reasoned.

He smelled sweat and the bitterness of amphetamines before he heard feet shuffling into the house. He wondered if he just ignored Stiles, maybe he'd go away. The day was young. He had shit to break. And he did not want to deal with an obnoxious teenager gloating or bitching at him.

So he didn't open his eyes or stand, generally just refused to acknowledge Stiles' existence as a whole.

"Dorian Gray," Stiles said, voice carrying through the ruin of a room.

"What?" He snapped after exactly three minutes, because Stiles wasn't leaving. Persistent, annoying little shit that he was, he probably thought silence was an invitation.

"It's like Dorian Gray. The house is your portrait."

Derek didn't want to admit that as much as he hated metaphors, that one was pretty spot on. It didn't mean he had to acknowledge it aloud, especially not to Stiles.

"Shouldn't you be shouting 'get off my lawn' or something like that?" Obviously Stiles was allergic to silence.

"What do you want, Stiles?"

Stiles looked exhausted, worn thin and through, like he hadn't been sleeping or eating. Derek wondered why that was, when Stiles' pack, his friends had come out on top, when he had his dad and best friend. The acrid scent of the amphetamines he took as medicine rolled off of him, stronger than ever. Mixed with teenage hormones, it was a nauseating stench, settling and entrenching itself below his tongue.

When the teenager leaned against the wall and slid down, he looked like he was folding into himself, like the stress _-and what stress did he have the right to feel?_ \- had finally gotten the better of the drugs.

"I want my dad to not know about werewolves. I want Peter dead. Maybe for my English teacher to have been cutely neurotic instead of fucking deranged? How about my best friend not being an alpha? Or for the others to be alive. Or for their murderers not to be in my pack? Or my former crush to not be a fucking banshee and apparently the best candidate for future emissary, because fuck the person that has been there since day one, that was a sacrifice. Obviously he's only useful as a chauffeur."

"You sound bitter." Derek couldn't help but feel bitter, hateful, mostly because it sounded like Stiles was more put out about not being an emissary than the fact that two dead teens were buried somewhere on the property and their murderers had taken their place in the high school.

"Pretty sure I earned the right to be."

Derek looked back inside, tried to decide what the best way to finish would be. Weakening several supports, parts of the foundation, and then a few boulders thrown at them would probably cave it all in.

"And I want to destroy this fucking house."

Derek's head swiveled around to look at Stiles, and he couldn't stop himself from wondering if Stiles wanted to destroy the house or destroy him.

"Working on it."

"I have a sledgehammer in my car."

Derek got up and went to work on the kitchen. It wasn't permission, and he had the half hope that maybe Stiles would just leave him the fuck alone.

But no, of course not. Three minutes later he heard the sound of walls being hit with a hammer.

He threw the stove in the general direction of the sound, didn't watch it as it broke through a wall or two. He certainly didn't look over at Stiles when the teenager shouted at him about how he'd almost died _-'again for fuck's sake I thought this shit was behind us'_ -.

They worked steadily. Derek created a new trapdoor when he picked up the rusted, half melted remnants of the fridge and attempted to bounce it.

He didn't warn Stiles. That would be disturbing the teenager, who sounded like he was doing just fine, if Derek didn't pay attention to the ragged breathing or the sound of a heart suffering arrhythmia. Stiles was just angsting, his anger and bitterness rolling off of him like the scent of that goddamn medication.

Not his problem. Nothing in Beacon Hills would ever be his problem again, once the house was finished.

He refused to think Stiles was doing him any favors. It was all about catharsis for him. (Derek just wanted any trace of himself gone from Beacon Hills.)

It wasn't until he heard the sound of flooring being caved in that he actually worried. Because it would be his luck that the sheriff's son would fall into the basement and kill himself. Walking into the living room, he saw Stiles lifting the hammer over his head to widen the hole made into the old hardwood. Rolling his eyes, because teenagers never failed to prove him right, he strode over and caught the hammer midswing.

"You'll fall through."

Stiles gave him a look that screamed typical teenage sarcasm. It was almost impressive.

"It's this or explosives."

Derek was going to say something smart back, but that- That didn't sound like a bad idea. And Stiles wasn't lying, even if the arrhythmia was making it difficult to get an accurate reading.

"I'd be deaf for a week," He replied flatly. Because even if it sounded more promising than throwing boulders at the house, he didn't want to give Stiles the impression that he actually wanted help.

"You hate the sound of people breathing, so it'd be two blessings in one, really," Stiles reasoned. Derek didn't bother to scowl.

"How did you get explosives?"

"Part of dad's never ending reading list. His, not mine, for work. You'd be amazed at what you can do with a few chemicals and some loose change."

Explosives would be quick and relatively painless. Almost effortless. It was easier to shrug than verbally condone the idea. Surely Stiles would take his cue. Maybe. Hopefully. He went back to the dining room to work on connecting it to the kitchen.

Stiles surprised him by walking back in with a poster tube. Derek didn't realize what was actually in Stiles' hands at first, but he was pleasantly surprised when the teenager pulled out and unrolled a set of blueprints. He had X's circled in red sharpie and Derek quickly dashed those hopes by pointing out the tunnels and niches, the hidey holes his family had created over time. The rooms where they'd been tied down every full moon before gaining control. The escapes that had been blocked before the fire had been set. The place he'd been tortured, inhaling the ash and dust that probably carried his family's DNA.

The sun was setting by the time they finished drawing on the blueprints. Stiles actually looked less sullen, and Derek figured it counted for something that someone was going to appreciate the destruction of the house as much as he would. He didn't know why, exactly, but he wasn't going to ask either.

They decided it was for the best to hold off for a few more days. Derek knew he'd leave after. If there was no Hale house, and he was no longer an alpha, there was no reason to stay. Beacon Hill belonged to the McCall pack. Cora wanted to find her old pack, let them know she was alive. Peter was gone. And he- He had no reason whatsoever to stay, and every reason to leave.

Or maybe he wouldn't survive the destruction. Maybe the house really was his portrait, and when it disintegrated, so would he.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It almost felt like he stopped being angry. He knew better, of course. He wouldn't stop being angry for a long time. Probably ever.

Stiles waited patiently outside while Derek placed the explosives in the basement. They were low tech, more difficult to trace, and one of the many things he learned by looking through books his dad had expressly forbidden him from reading. If it had been anyone else, he'd wonder why the house mattered so much, but for Derek, he could hazard a guess or two and leave it alone.

They both wanted the house gone. Derek could just hate the symbol of his past. Stiles knew he did. The house that literally started the whole horrorshow, the fire that had led to the utter ruin his life had become. It wasn't Derek anymore, wasn't a representative for Derek. It was just the remaining vestiges of the event that had disrupted his normal, simple life almost a decade after it had been condemned. And he hated it.

When Derek walked out, covered in dust and soot, Stiles offered a wry smile. He didn't think about the soot, what, or worse, _who_ , it could have been a part of.

"Time to get this show on the road." He meant it literally. While Derek was sure his own hearing would easily come back, Stiles wasn't sure of any such thing, and he didn't want to spend the rest of his life deaf. He figured it would be the universe's sense of humor to make him deaf on top of everything else. They hopped in his jeep and made the drive down the beaten path.

Derek looked into the distance as though he could still see the house through the tree. Maybe he could, Stiles had no idea and didn't feel like asking. Exhaustion was eating at the edges of his concentration, and he'd forgotten his adderall again, reminded himself to go for a refill on the way back.

"I was the reason it burned," Derek finally said into the silence, his hand clutching the detonator. He had to be taking pains to be careful, because he would crush it otherwise, but Stiles didn't think he was imagining the white knuckled grip.

"Huh?"

"Kate Argent."

Stiles sighed. He knew that story, probably better than anyone besides the Hales, certainly better than he wanted to, and Kate's involvement and Derek's hatred of her, the guilt that he shouldered, he'd guessed and kept it to himself. Confirmation didn't do much of anything though, except maybe make it worse, make it sit heavier in his stomach, in his throat. "I'd tell you it's not your fault, that you were young, that you didn't know better, but you won't believe me."

He didn't mention how much he wished Derek would, because that was one of those things that was better left implied. Even if Derek was allowing him to be a part of this, whatever it was, that didn't mean they were friends. And that meant feelings talks weren't welcome. Not that he really wanted to have one.

Derek didn't give any more warning than that, the vague statement that summed him up, before he switched the detonator and several consecutive booms thudded and echoed in the distance. Stiles took a moment to be proud of their work, to feel the resulting vibrations echo through the air and through him. Something eased inside of his chest. It almost felt like he stopped being angry. He knew better, of course. He wouldn't stop being angry for a long time. Probably ever. But it was a start, maybe. When he looked at Derek, he was surprised to see shock imprinted on the werewolf's features.

"I'm still here," Derek muttered, as though he'd thought he would vanish with the house. Maybe he had. Maybe he wished he had. Stiles put a comforting hand on his arm. It was weird, he hadn't wanted to touch anyone or be touched in days, but Derek looked like he needed it, needed the confirmation that he wasn't going to crumble too.

"Maybe it's not your portrait after all." Stiles didn't tell him that maybe it was the stone around his neck, didn't mention that now that the past has been so utterly destroyed, maybe it was time to move on.

The moment passed and he put his hand back on the wheel.

He dropped Derek off at his toyota, reached absently for adderall that wasn't there.

(Later that night John asked him what happened and he lied out of habit. 'I don't know.' His father's face was pinched but he didn't counter it. Maybe that too, was habit.)


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He refused to admit that the uncertainty was what drew him in, when he was so sure, so _certain_ that everything else was fundamentally _wrong_.

"You're not going to join his pack. Cora either." It was a statement, not a question. Peter had disappeared, and the others, including Ethan and Aiden, had folded themselves into Scott's pack with an ease that pissed him off. But Scott was essentially werewolf Jesus, and all sins were forgiven. (Stiles hadn't forgiven Allison yet, or Aiden and Ethan, but he knew better than to say being around them was uncomfortable, that trying to connect with people that had tortured and killed his friends was beyond his abilities. No need to check which way the wind blew when he already knew the direction.)

"No," Derek answered, though it was unnecessary. Stiles didn't blame him. He felt like maybe he was the only one in the pack that hadn't gotten so swept up in the relief of it being over that he'd forgotten the cost. Then again, the nightmares made it difficult _-fucking impossible_ \- to forget.

"You should leave." Derek looked at him, head tilted curiously as though he couldn't quite figure Stiles out. Stiles was more amazed that Derek had actually stayed in Beacon Hills for twenty four hours after his mission was completed.

"Not this second, but Beacon Hills. Maybe find a pack you can be comfortable in. Or be alone. Or whatever. Become a hermit in the mountains or live in a redwood. Or fuck, actually live in a decent house instead of squatting somewhere."

"Why did you destroy the upstairs?" Derek finally asked. It was a perfectly valid question, but Stiles wasn't sure how to answer without it sounding like an accusation. In the wake of the whole Darach/Alphas mess, he still wasn't sure how to handle Derek. (He refused to admit that the uncertainty was what drew him in, when he was so sure, so _certain_ that everything else was fundamentally _wrong_.) So he went for honesty. After all, Derek hadn't killed him yet, and he doubted it would ever happen now.

"I thought you were dead. And I was mad."

"That I was dead." There was a question there, but Stiles wasn't quite sure what it was.

"You were, I mean, you were the alpha. And even though you were a dick, it was like you couldn't die. Couldn't break, not like everyone else." Stiles thought about the irony of it. Derek turned out to be as fragile as he was, maybe even more so. "It was nice, feeling like there was something fixed, you know. Solid."

Derek was quiet in the wake of the admission. Probably because they both knew better now. Even so, Stiles still felt like Derek was the only fixed point in his life, for all the ambivalence he felt regarding him. Scott was an alpha, for better or worse, and trying to take charge in the best way he knew how. His father was now aware of the bumps in the night, and was constantly moving, learning, adjusting. Chris had decided to help him with that, and the Argent's presence in his home at odd hours was disconcerting at best. Worse when his dad was going over wolfsbane ammunition and incendiary rounds.

His home was no longer his sanctuary, but he had no where else to go. Not with Lydia training with Deaton to control her own natural powers and constantly hanging onto Aiden, and that thought was better ignored. Allison was Allison was Allison, and he couldn't trust her, probably never would. Issac and and the twins were all throwing themselves headlong into a pack under a true alpha, trusting for different reasons but trusting nonetheless. Connecting and accepting where he couldn't even find the strength to forgive (and fuck forgetting, he'd never stop seeing Erica's rotting body or Boyd laying in two inches of water, nothing more than a pincushion). Cora was grieving Boyd, now that she actually had the time to.

He had nowhere to go, except to Derek, who felt vaguely safe for some reason. (He did have a few theories about latent suicidal tendencies.)

And he was telling him he should leave. Obviously his dream of a better tomorrow was buried under self loathing and self pity that rivaled Derek's. Christ, Derek _did_ need to get away from him, before they created a genuine sinkhole of angst. Given Beacon Hill's status as a supernatural hotspot, it wasn't entirely beyond belief that it could manifest something like that.

"You're right," Derek agreed, breaking the silence.

"About what?" It had been a long enough silence that he wasn't sure what Derek was talking about anymore.

"I need to get out of here."

He was quiet for a moment, then shrugged and smiled the sort of smile he knew was more resignation and encouragement than an expression of genuine happiness. It was the best he could manage, but at least he was trying, and that had to count for something, not much else did anymore. "Yeah, you do."

(Derek left that night, nothing but a duffel in his trunk and Cora in the passenger seat of his toyota. Stiles sat on the hood of his car, stationed on the only road out of Beacon Hills. He waved to the toyota and imagined they waved back. He stayed there for hours, wishing he could follow instead of going back to his bed, to his life.)


End file.
